


some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing

by metaphoriclee



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Not yet though, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Recovery, geralt has no idea what to do, it will come, no beta we die like witchers, there is no comfort yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23209255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaphoriclee/pseuds/metaphoriclee
Summary: There's no way Geralt could notice any of his new habits, ones that nobody would notice unless they looked for them: wrapping his thumb and forefinger around his wrist, touching his shoulders, hips and spine when he's nervous, checking how he looks whenever he can see his reflection.Jaskier barely notices himself doing it most days.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 33
Kudos: 411





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my intention isn't to romanticise anorexia and eating disorders in general, this is really an attempt to depict the reality of disordered thoughts and actions *cough* and project onto jaskier *cough*
> 
> please be wary and don't read if eating disorders or anorexia specifically may be triggering to you <3
> 
> (title from 'preludes' by t.s. eliot)

At first, Jaskier isn’t doing it consciously. 

When Geralt offers him bread with his meal he waves it away. Geralt needs it more than he does, he says; after all, he’s not the one killing monsters. 

Geralt doesn’t argue, but ‘hm’s as he puts the bread away.

He does it more often, and Geralt never argues or seems to notice. 

It’s become a habit to refuse whenever Geralt offers, even when he is hungry. The bard can’t begin to unravel his own reasons for doing so. He knows there’s probably a reason for it, but Jaskier knows himself well enough to recognise not to tug on that thread.

It starts to become something he thinks about, and occasionally, he realises that he is proud - somehow - that he can refuse, even if he wants it.

He tries to ignore it after that.

When they eat together, Jaskier tries to banish his thoughts of food from his mind and gulps down as much as he can of whatever Geralt puts in front of him, as though nothing is wrong and it doesn’t bother him in the slightest to do so.

It doesn’t, physically. But as much as he pretends otherwise, it still nauseates him to entertain the concept of food, let alone consuming it. 

He knows he has to eat, rationally, at least. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to stop - just to see what happens, he tells himself. He can’t help but imagine it and spends more than enough time lingering on those thoughts. 

He still glances guiltily at his reflection when the occasion presents itself, looking for differences in his body every time, whether he looks the same as he did last time he checked. He doesn’t think he looks any different.

It’s not until someone else notices that he realises he can’t just pretend it’s not there.

He and Geralt are in a village after a job. Geralt had abandoned him at the inn, telling him to organise them a room while Geralt visited the local apothecary for a potion they had run out of. Jaskier agrees - he could play something for the inn’s patrons, and earn enough to treat himself and Geralt like they did every so often. They have enough to pay for two rooms, tonight, which Jaskier knows Geralt prefers, even if he doesn’t.

“You sure you don’t need a meal with your rooms, my friend?” The woman at the bar asks him. “You look like you might need it.” She gestures to the bard’s figure. 

Jaskier is taken aback, and sure it shows on his face, but quickly masks it. 

“I’ll be fine for now thank you very much, I will after I’ve entertained your customers; if you permit that is.” He smiles and holds his lute up for the woman to see (he has no intention of following through on the woman’s offer afterwards).

“Go ahead.”

Jaskier puts his bag down in the corner of the room and strums his lute, checking the tuning of the strings hasn’t changed and adjusts one before pivoting to face the centre of the room.

He launches into a jaunty folk-tune usually popular with crowds, and before long, he has the whole bar singing along with him. Geralt walks in partway through, and between songs, he intercepts Jaskier to get the key to one of the rooms.

Jaskier doesn’t really pay attention to the music - the woman’s words stick in his mind, as though caught in an eddy. He retires early that night.

He had mentioned to the woman at the bar earlier, when he went to take a short rest, that a bath would be accepted gratefully - when he reaches his room, the tub in the corner is nearly full of water, freshly drawn and steaming. His bag gets tossed roughly on the bed, as he eagerly sheds himself of his doublet.

When he tugs his shirt off, he sees his reflection in the glass propped up in the corner of the room. His arms are still stretched above his head, emphasising his ribs, but they’re definitely more prominent than they used to be. Maybe the woman at the bar was right - now he thinks about it, he notices small details that have changed from how they used to be - his collarbones, ribs, and hips, sharper, his legs, thinner and more graceful. He gingerly wraps his hand on his other wrist and touches his thumb to his middle finger. He couldn’t do that before.

He spends too much time looking in the glass that evening, noticing the curves and shapes his form makes, observing where his skin stretches over bone, how it shifts when he moves, which positions emphasise the sharpness of his frame, and which ones hide it. He doesn’t try to lie to himself, he likes seeing the changes in the mirror, a taste of what he could be if he kept going.

When he finally goes to bathe, the water is lukewarm. The bad doesn’t relax into the water like he usually would, instead, sits up, stiffly, and stares at his hands as they gradually begin to wrinkly and prune. It’s only the chattering of his teeth that pull him out of his trance, reminding him to get out of the water.

There's no way Geralt could notice anything strange. Some tiny part of Jaskier wishes that he would notice, though, to reassure Jaskier that he’s not starving in vain. Because if Geralt noticed anything about Jaskier, then it would be something, not just his mind playing tricks on himself. 

He no longer spends money on wine and food when they stop in villages and towns - Geralt usually goes to bed too early to know what the bard does with his money, anyway. When the coin starts to tally up, Jaskier winks and says that people must be particularly generous right now. He feels guilty for lying but stops when he realises that Geralt would be annoyed if he knew what he was doing.

He starts to form new habits, ones that nobody would notice unless they looked for them: wrapping his thumb and forefinger around his wrist, touching his shoulders, hips and spine when he's nervous, checking how he looks whenever he can see his reflection. 

Jaskier barely notices himself doing it most days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my intention isn't to romanticise anorexia and eating disorders, i want to be as accurate as i can about the reality of what it's like to go through it.
> 
> this chapter mentions throwing up briefly, which i didn't mention in the tags but thought i should warn you
> 
> please be wary and don't read if eating disorders or anorexia specifically may be triggering <3

Life continues on as it always does for a while. Geralt fights monsters, Jaskier writes about it, they travel together.

Geralt seems to have not picked up on the fact that Jaskier will refuse food often, and so still offers him second servings every night.

Jaskier doesn’t really mind saying no until he starts to get hungry. One day he skips breakfast, which he and Geralt usually ate together, and after that, the meal barely touches Jaskier’s mind (or stomach) again. But now, without the most important meal of the day to add to his ever-shrinking diet, he begins to really feel the effects of what he’s missing.

He’s constantly hungry now, and saying no is harder. He caves once or twice, staying up when Geralt goes to bed to try and satisfy his growling stomach, eating everything he has spare in his bag. He sometimes throws up, but it’s only because he’s eaten enough to make himself sick. 

Every time that happens, he’s especially careful not to eat in the next few days, the guilt of giving in keeping him in line. He always eats something eventually though, telling himself it’s so that Geralt won’t become suspicious (although really, he knows Geralt doesn’t care enough to notice, he just wants the empty feeling to go away, even if just for a little while.)

That makes him feel guilty too.

It continues this way for a while till Jaskier eats particularly much one night. It’s late, and Geralt has been asleep for an hour or so already. Jaskier sits up by the embers of the dying fire, trying to stop himself from thinking about food. He strums his lute a little, but the inspiration doesn’t come like it usually does, and he sets it down by his bag soon after, frustrated. 

He waits a bit more, making sure that Geralt is unmoving from his bedroll, and stands up. He approaches Roach as quickly as he dares, watching the ground to ensure his steps won’t make any noise. He whispers a little reassurance to the horse, and strokes her mane as he unbuckles her saddlebag, pulling out a day’s food. He buckles it back up, fumbling with the clasps, and turns back to their camp. 

Jaskier is almost feral as he eats, tearing the dried meat apart with his hands and teeth to devour it more rapidly, the thin paper packaging pushed to the bottom of his bag. The portion of fruit goes just as quickly, the peel and cores tossed into the thickest section of bush around them.

Jaskier doesn’t sleep well that night, the guilt consuming him from the inside out, twisting his every thought into a horrible judgement. 

The next day, Geralt informs him that there’s word of a job in a town a day and a half away, which is where they’re headed. Jaskier doesn’t complain, the walking would help to counteract what he’d eaten the previous night. 

Geralt offers him seconds of the stew they have that night, camped in a small clearing in the forest, a short distance off the road. Jaskier had taken the smallest serve he could, and eaten slowly, interchanging it with long drinks from his water skin, hoping they would help him feel more full. 

Geralt reaches for the stew pot after they had both eaten, pouring himself a second serving. There’s still some left, so he holds it out to the bard, who steadfastly ignores it, gazing into the fire instead. They’re both silent for a moment, until Geralt breaks it.

“Jaskier.”

And Jaskier looks up, meeting his eyes, and he snaps.

“Would you stop fucking offering me food. I don’t want it,” he spits. “I’ll eat if I’m fucking hungry.” He doesn’t see any change in Geralt’s manner, stony faced as always. They break eye contact as Jaskier looks down at the ground. After a minute, Geralt stops looking at him, and goes back to his bowl of stew, as though nothing ever happened. 

Geralt stops offering him food, but that’s the only change. They don’t talk about it again.

Jaskier is more careful after that. He stops caving in the middle of the night, and eats as little as he can. The grumbling of his stomach accompanies his thoughts, but now, he just ignores it - he’ll have to get used to it if he wants to make any progress. 

Time is separated into before and now. Before was the time where he ate, where he didn’t think about food, or stop to notice his body. Now he doesn’t eat, and ignores the hunger pains in his stomach. He’s stronger now - he’s sure of it - because now he’s in control.

He cries the next time he sees himself in a looking glass. He’s not thin enough. His ribs are visible, sure, but they’re not obvious. He can feel the bones in his shoulders if he holds one while he moves his other arm (which is more than he could before), but he can’t see them. His middle and ring fingers touch his thumb now, when he wraps them around his wrist - but there’s still two more to go. He still muffin-tops in his clothes sometimes, as much as he tries to hide it with his loose shirts and pants - which, while they definitely feel bigger on him, aren’t as big as they could be. 

He checks every day, touching his wrists and shoulders, hips, ribs, collarbones, spine: any place one could possibly feel a difference. There’s a scale at a doctor’s house they visit, and while Geralt is off threatening the doctor, Jaskier steps on the scale (just out of curiosity, of course). The weight is written down in his notebook (the one he keeps for lyrics and ideas), on the last page, scribbled in the corner.

The effects of starving are starting to show: Jaskier receives comments now and then from concerned patrons or curious bystanders, asking whether he’s okay; he looks pale and tired, stick-thin and lethargic, they tell him. Jaskier doesn’t see it - he’s not that thin, anyway, and he’s not pale. Of course, he is more tired than usual, but he’s a bard travelling with a Witcher, for gods’ sakes, of course he’d be tired. He tells the askers as much, but they mostly raise an eyebrow at him or sigh. Jaskier is used to it by now, though; he tells himself they’re wrong, he looks fine! They don’t know him, anyway, so why should they have an opinion?

Geralt doesn’t notice anything different, or if he does, he doesn’t say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks a lot to everyone who gave me kudos/comments on chapter 1, the validation is pushing me to write more! to those that were worried about me, i'm recovering at the moment and doing pretty well, and i'm not in any danger! 
> 
> i am moderating comments, so if you do want to say something but don't want it to be public, feel free, just mention in the comment and i'll leave it unapproved so it's private! 
> 
> if you want to talk to me about anything (or vent if you need to), i'm @croww-lee on tumblr, and @crow#0730 on discord!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my intention isn't to romanticise anorexia and eating disorders, i want to be as accurate as i can about the reality of what it's like to go through it.
> 
> this chapter is kind of just set up/filler for the next chapter, so i'm sorry if it's not very satisfying! warning for mentions of blood/injuries/death.
> 
> please be wary and don't read if eating disorders or anorexia specifically may be triggering <3

The village they arrive at is small and decrepit, the shops and streets empty of patrons - something Jaskier remarks on. As they enter the tiny inn, the old man behind the bar cries out in joy seeing Geralt. He explains to the pair that the village had been raided by bandits, killing more than a few and injuring others. 

Geralt accepts the job of wiping out the bandits graciously (although Jaskier talks him into doing it for no payment, reasoning that a small group of downtrodden villagers would not have much to give). After telling as much to the innkeeper, they set out again (although Jaskier complains that they haven’t even had time to sit down), in the direction that the innkeeper points.

It’s not hard to find the bandits. With horses and supplies with them, the tracks were easy to discover and follow. Trodden leaves and broken branches lead the way to the camp, where Jaskier and Geralt stand.

Outside the camp, Geralt and Jaskier look onto the group. Geralt doesn’t look worried, just annoyed, but Jaskier is used to that. They’d argued on the road over whether Jaskier should even come, but Geralt had given in after his companion had promised not to get involved. 

After a (much too long, in Jaskier’s opinion) time spent, silently observing the camp, Geralt moves, blending into the evening shadows as he creeps silently through the trees, practiced and deliberate in his actions. Jaskier is left to watch, clutching the small knife that usually hangs from his belt, as he sees Geraskier moving through the undergrowth, slowly, silently. 

All at once, the witcher goes in, swords unsheathed, and cuts down two of the bandits standing closest. The others are started from their various places around the clearing, beginning to draw their weapons. Geralt swipes at the nearest one, who fumbles for his sword, but behind him, 2 more men are advancing, and Geralt doesn’t seem to notice.

“Geralt, behind!” Jaskier shouts on impulse before he can stop himself. He realises, too late, that he’s given away his position to the bandits that are left, and he starts, as two turn their swords toward him.

Jaskier tries to defend himself, he really does, but with no weapons training and armed with a knife, he stands no chance. He slashes out toward the closer of the two, but his cut is easily dodged. The other man steps closer and his sword slices down the bard’s forearm, slashing his doublet and into his skin. The first man makes another cut, this time, leaving a shallow wound in Jaskier’s abdomen. 

He feels his legs crumple beneath him as he falls forward onto his knees, sure that it is the end for him, finally. It would be fitting, really, to die alone in the forest, easily overpowered and without putting up a fight. He looks up, expecting to see the flash of a blade towards him, but instead, he sees the figure of his Witcher standing over the bandits. 

Geralt rushes forward to grab onto Jaskier, and he feels himself being lifted off the ground, moving instinctively to cradle his forearm to his chest. 

This has the added effect of obscuring the cut in his stomach, but Jaskier doesn’t do anything to correct it. 

“Why did you do that?” Geralt growls, looking the bard over. For once, Jaskier is afraid of the Witcher, who seems more concerned by Jaskier’s (admittedly, thoughtless) actions than his injuries.

“I was saving your ass, for once! You would have been hurt if I hadn’t yelled.” Stumbling over his words, unlike how he usually is, Jaskier spits out, “Thanks for worrying about my wellbeing, by the way.”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it, and Jaskier is afraid he’s crossed a line. 

Instead, Geralt bites his lip, and places Jaskier down, back against the closest tree. Without saying anything, he swiftly stands and walks toward Roach, tied loosely to a tree a few metres away, returning a second later with a small pouch. 

Jaskier holds out his injured arm, keeping his other one wrapped around his stomach. He knows he should say something about the other injury, but like with the food, he can’t - Geralt would surely just be angry. The Witcher pushes up his sleeve and Jaskier lets out a whimper as he pours the contents of a small bottle onto his stinging cut. Geralt stitches and bandages it without any more noise from Jaskier, whose teeth are gritted the whole time. 

They leave the camp after that, wading through the bushland back to the road, which they follow to the village. Geralt rides Roach, while Jaskier walks alongside, arms crossed against his stomach. 

There’s only one clean room at the inn, which Geralt and Jaskier have to share. Jaskier unpacks as Geralt spends time to wipe down his armour and weapons, before going to visit Roach, leaving Jaskier alone. 

Finally, Jaskier can relax, now that Geralt is gone. He sheds his doublet, which is thrown haphazardly into the corner of the room, along with his bloodstained shirt. He avoids looking down at the wound in his stomach, instead, reaching through his bag for his bandage. 

Eventually, the pain is too great. Taking a deep breath, he casts his eyes towards his abdomen, which is very bloody and a little dirty. The wound seems so big on his skin, daunting and deep. 

The jug of water in his room is quickly emptied as Jaskier dabs at his stomach with a rag, satisfied when the blood and dirt are mostly gone. He wraps the bandage around it, too scared to try to stitch it closed, and pulls on another shirt to try and hide it. 

Geralt comes back soon after, ignoring Jaskier. They both do their own thing, in silence, for a while, Geralt busy with some thing Jaskier can’t understand; the bard, cross legged on his bed, sewing closed the torn arm of his doublet.

After a while, the light starts to fade, and Jaskier can no longer sew. 

“Do you want to go down and have dinner?” He asks. He doesn’t want dinner, he’d stay up here if he could, but his stomach threatens to give away his hunger, and he doesn’t want to sleep on an empty stomach. Not tonight, at least.

“Hm.” Geralt’s grunts don’t give away much, but Jaskier has been around long enough to know that his sound is in agreement. His actions reflect this, as he puts whatever he’s doing down and stands up. Jaskier places his doublet down in front of him, tucking his needle partway into the fabric to keep it where it is. As he’s no longer sewing, he begins to feel the pain in his cuts again, throbbing in rhythm to his heartbeat. 

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up. 

Then he collapses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking with this fic so far!
> 
> i am moderating comments, so if you do want to say something but don't want it to be public, feel free, just mention in the comment and i'll leave it unapproved so it's private!
> 
> if you want to talk to me about anything (or vent if you need to), i'm @croww-lee on tumblr, and @crow#0730 on discord!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my intention isn't to romanticise anorexia and eating disorders, i want to be as accurate as i can about the reality of what it's like to experience it.
> 
> warnings in this chapter for mentions of blood/injuries
> 
> please be wary and don't read if eating disorders or anorexia specifically may be triggering <3

Jaskier’s eyesight begins to come back, as slowly, the black begins to fade and the centre of his vision clears. He’s still on the floor, and the first thing he notices is the pain, shooting through his stomach. He doesn’t know how long he’s lain there, whether it’s been a second or an hour, but he desperately tries 

“What the hell did you do?” He can see Geralt now, face above his own, and has the revelation that the Witcher is cradling him, keeping his head off the floor and supporting his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing he can mumble out. His throat is as arid as the great deserts and he struggles to breathe, choking in air as rapidly as he can. 

Geralt’s stern expression softens as he watches Jaskier, and shifts his hold on him, sliding his hand from the man’s neck to his back, his other, underneath his legs. Jaskier is lifted from the ground and up onto his bed, 

“Where are you hurt?”

Jaskier doesn’t want to say anything - doesn’t want to have to reveal himself to Geralt - but his glance down tells the Witcher enough. 

“Shirt. Off. Now.” Geralt’s face is fixed and severe, unflinching as he looks Jaskier in the eye. Jaskier casts his gaze down to the floor as he replies, unwilling to maintain eye-contact.

“No.” 

“That wasn’t a request.” Geralt’s tone, harsher than before, is one Jaskier has heard many times before - the hint of a threat present underneath his growl. 

He swallows down the taste of vomit rising in his throat, and reaches down with his uninjured arm to pull his shirt up. Geralt reaches out to help it over his head and other arm, and casts it into the corner, before surveying Jaskier in front of him. 

Geralt sees the bandage wrapped haphazardly around the bard’s midriff quickly enough, spots of blood beginning to soak through to the surface. He spends a moment lingering on Jaskier’s chest, surely, noticing the distinct lack of fat, his ribs protruding awkwardly from his chest, collarbones, shoulders, and hips, visible beneath the skin (even though Jaskier is certain that he’s not thin *enough*). 

Without saying anything he unwraps the wound, and surveys it for a moment, before standing up and walking across the room, grabbing his pouch which he’d used earlier. 

From inside, Geralt pulls a small bottle like the one he’d used earlier, as well as a new bandage and a needle. Jaskier winces as Geralt begins to clean and stitch the wound on his stomach, less affected by the pain than the closeness between the two of them. 

When Geralt has finished stitching, he motions for Jaskier to sit up, which he does, slowly and cautiously, head still spinning. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asks softly as he begins to wrap the bandage around Jaskier’s middle, passing the bandage from one hand to the other as he winds around. 

Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer, silent for a minute. Although when he finally replies, trying to speak in a cheerful tone, the way his voice cracks and shakes makes it obvious he’s not as unaffected as he’s making out.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal?” 

“Bullshit.”

Jaskier searches for another excuse. 

“I didn’t want you to feel guilty about getting me hurt!” It’s the closest Jaskier gets to telling Geralt the truth in a while, and it’s not as though it’s inaccurate - he’s hidden wounds from Geralt before for this reason. 

“A bit late for that.” Geralt says. “Against my better judgement I let you accompany me and this is what’s come of it.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

Geralt is silent, but stands up and walks over to the other side of the room, likely going to the door.

“Don’t leave me alone, please?” His voice cracks as he says the last word, and he can’t stop the dam inside his mind from collapsing, flooding out. The tears that have been welling in his eyes begin to drip down his cheeks, and he lets out a wracking sob. His breath hitches as he cries, sitting up on his bed. 

As Geralt glances over, Jaskier folds himself in, arms drawing his knees towards his still-bare chest. Jaskier doesn’t see what Geralt does next, closing his eyes and feeling the tears trail down his face, some gathering on his nose, others on his chin. He rests his forehead on his knees, hiccupping a little as he weeps, struggling to breathe steadily.

It’s not the pain that’s making him cry like this, he’s been hurt more before, and at the moment, it’s manageable. It’s Geralt seeing his half naked body, disgusting and bloated; Geralt undoubtedly judging him for it - of course he would, Geralt’s body is godlike without trying, something Jaskier tries not to be too envious of.

He hears a thump of footsteps, and expects it to be followed by the soft creaking of the door as Geralt would open it, but he doesn’t. Instead, the footsteps move towards him, and then stop. The groan of his bed comes a second later, as Jaskier feels the mattress warp underneath more weight.

Jaskier opens his (still wet) eyes and glances through his knees. Through his watery vision, he can see Geralt, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring toward somewhere on the other side of the room. His hands are playing with part of the blanket absent-mindedly, rubbing it between his fingers. It’s calming to see Geralt there.

When Jaskier eventually sleeps, still curled into a ball at the head of his bed, Geralt is still there, staring into the ground.

When he wakes up the next day, he’s been changed out of his day-old clothes, which sit folded at the foot of his bed, and into a different shirt - one he realises, as he recognises it, is Geralt’s. A tray sits next to Jaskier’s clothes, a roll of bread and a dish of butter sitting on it, ham and cheese on another plate next to them. 

Jaskier makes sure to eat everything on the tray (just to content Geralt, of course).

Geralt isn’t in the room, and his bed hasn’t been slept in. There’s other evidence he’s been there, though. An empty water glass sits by the now-refilled jug by the windowsill, and his bag is on his bed, open. 

Jaskier discovers the Witcher as he looks out of the single window in the room, looking over the courtyard. He’s alone with his sword, and Jaskier watches as he swings it deftly, cutting at imaginary enemies. He makes his way down soon after, and sits against one of the walls in the inn, watching Geralt. They make eye contact as Geralt looks over, unhesitating as he continues to practise his movement. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier mouths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all <3
> 
> i am moderating comments, so if you do want to say something but don't want it to be public, feel free, just mention in the comment and i'll leave it unapproved so it's private!
> 
> if you want to talk to me about anything (or vent if you need to), i'm @croww-lee on tumblr, and @crow#0730 on discord!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my intention isn't to romanticise anorexia and eating disorders, i want to be as accurate as i can about the reality of what it's like to experience it.
> 
> please be wary and don't read if eating disorders or anorexia specifically may be triggering <3

Jaskier dreads the evenings with Geralt. 

The Witcher has taken it upon himself to inspect Jaskier’s wounds every night, something which means Jaskier’s shirt is raised, if not removed entirely. 

It’s not as though Jaskier has never been shirtless around Geralt, in fact he’s been naked more than once, and so’s Geralt. 

But this is different than it was before . Before he didn’t really care about his body. To be fair, being a bard, he’d had his fair share of one night stands, and there was something to be said about pretty bards being more appealing, but before, it was his voice that was more important than anything.

Now, food, and how his body looks, fill his thoughts, invading every corner of his mind until nothing is untainted. 

He lets Geralt check his wounds, trying not to make too much of a fuss, but he never exposes himself more than he has to.

He’s stopped sleeping around. He still falls a little bit in love with everyone he meets - of course he does - but he can’t bring himself to make himself vulnerable like that to anyone else. After all, he’s stronger now. It has nothing to do with the fact that he can barely look at his own body, let alone let someone else see it. Of course not.

It’s not all bad, though. He’s sure that he’s made more money in the past few months than he had anytime before (or he just hasn’t spent it on food and drink, his mind reminds him). With the extra money, he splurges on a new set of clothes (that fit), as well as some thread to alter those he already owns. 

He even buys a bag of rolled oats, which he hides in his backpack and feeds to Roach (and, when he’s starving, himself). The horse seems to buy the bribe, and starts to let him stroke her sometimes. Geralt stares, mouth open, when she begins to nuzzle his shoulder when he’s standing close.

That’s the only thing Geralt has - visibly, at least - noticed change. Jaskier likes it and hates it at the same time.

Jaskier seems to be the only person Geralt doesn’t analyse, doesn’t know the every movement of. It makes it much easier to get away with things that any other travelling companion would have noticed. 

But it does make Jaskier hurt, sometimes. Well, a lot. He and Geralt have travelled together for years, and the bard wouldn’t admit it, but he held the Witcher’s opinion in his regard, miles higher than anyone else’s; and it was frustrating, agonising, that Geralt didn’t seem to care about him enough to see that something was different.

Geralt had noticed. 

It was hard to pick up on at the beginning. The first hint was Jaskier’s seemingly lowering appetite, coupled with excuses for not eating: offering Geralt food that he didn’t want, telling Geralt that he was bigger, and did more of the work. Before then, Jaskier had always been selfish with his things, waving it off and telling Geralt to mind his own goddamn business, since he sat on a horse all day. 

Maybe Jaskier just wasn’t hungry, which would have been totally fine, except it wasn’t the only thing.

There was also the withdrawal.

Jaskier stopped sitting with him, stopped talking, except for when he was obligated to be there. Geralt had seen the bard avoid people, which struck him as more than a little out of character for a professional musician with a fuck-ton of hyperactivity and very little (no) impulse control.

He remembers the incident where Jaskier had yelled at him after being offered food. Geralt hadn’t known what to do then, how to talk about it, so he hadn’t. He regrets it now, seeing how much has changed. 

He’d only noticed that Jaskier was noticeably thinner after hearing someone tell him (Geralt wasn’t eavesdropping, it was just the way his hearing was). The person - just someone they’d met on the road, a stranger - had taken Jaskier aside (as though Geralt wouldn’t be able to still hear them), and asked whether Jaskier was ill, because he seemed worryingly thin and sickly. 

Geralt had spent the rest of their journey that day sneaking looks at the bard, examining him closely. The stranger was right, Jaskier was thin and not in a good way. He had been frustrated at himself for not having noticed earlier, but more than that, confused - what was wrong with him, was he sick? 

He had no idea how to bring it up (could he just say “Jaskier, you look like you’re going to die” or would that be too blunt?), and the last thing he wanted to do was to make it worse.

Geralt now wishes that his past self had gone with the blunt method, because now he doesn't know how to broach the subject. He watches the bard every waking moment he has, and his behaviour is certainly strange. He uses the excuse of checking his wounds to see Jaskier’s body every day, forcing himself to memorise every curve and line, bone and muscle. If anything changes, Geralt sees it, and he does.

The bard just keeps getting smaller and smaller, sicklier and sicklier. 

He doesn’t know if Jaskier’s sick or dying, or if he’s been cursed, or who knows what, but regardless.

Geralt has no idea what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is later and shorter than usual!
> 
> i am moderating comments, so if you do want to say something but don't want it to be public, feel free, just mention in the comment and i'll leave it unapproved so it's private!
> 
> if you want to talk to me about anything (or vent if you need to), i'm @croww-lee on tumblr, and @crow#0730 on discord!

**Author's Note:**

> toss a kudos to your writer~


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